Sometimes I wonder (wistfully) what my life would have become if I had simply followed my creative instincts as a writer (or perhaps as an actor?) instead of becoming a nurse. A writer's life! A creative life? Would it have been a simpler life? More, or less, challenging? I doubt that. Certainly I have had enough personal experiences to draw on without becoming ensconced in the medical world which steals so many of my hours and energy units, while at the same time offering me a great deal of material to digest and regurgitate as my own. But even without that material, I sense that I may have written the same narratives, themes, issues that strike me as necessary because of my work life. I suppose it's too blended to separate at this juncture. And I must acknowlege that there are many writers who suceed at working in medicine and publishing their work in the same lifetime.
I became a nurse because of the callings of my own experiences, but also my need to see the effects of my work regularly. To feel like a contributor, even in a field that I truly believe takes more than it delivers. I believe that I have been creative within that field, at least to the best of my abilities. I suppose there are both obstacles to, and punishments for, creativity and self-expression within every life.
Well, a short meditation here. I'm off to a poetry workshop with a manuscript in hand. I'm giving poetry its due time for a few days. I'll let you know if I change my mind about anything while I'm there. As if I could change anything without changing everything.